Onderon
by Firebirdie
Summary: Ravaszhi and Evren take a vacation. RP/co-written with Mother of Ducklings; sequel to "Self Destruct."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Another RP-turned-fic, co-written with Mother of Ducklings. Now with extra fluff.

 **Onderon**

 **o.O.o**

Ravaszhi pauses in the open air hangar as sweat prickles at his scalp. The air outside Iziz' starport is green and wet and heavy with condensation, counterpoint to the bright Japrael star blazing overhead.

The other disembarkers jostle him as they crowd past, and Ravaszhi laughs at himself. He'd planned for space pirates, Jedi encounters, Sith encounters, Disturbance encounters, _Gree_ encounters (he could always hope), and food poisoning, but he hadn't thought to check the _weather_. It's a good day when the worst of his concerns are so mundane.

The slightest exertion of focus, and the swampy pull at Ravaszhi's skin lessens enough for his long robes to be comfortable again. Ravaszhi sidesteps the milling people in his path, and almost immediately spots Evren at the far side of the concourse.

He seems . . . preoccupied with his datapad, but otherwise well. Rested, even.

It's a good look on him.

 _Don't ruin it_ , Ravaszhi tells himself, a helpless little knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He slips through the last of the foot traffic and joins him, trying for a smile. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

Evren looks up and grins, stowing the datapad as he unfolds from the bench. "No, not at all! Just got here myself, actually—how was your flight?"

"Calm," Ravaszhi says, feeling his smile grow less strained at Evren's greeting. "It was —a nice change. Yours?"

"Uneventful, but pleasant, yes." Evren rubs the back of his neck. "So, er . . . check into our accommodations, drop off gear, then . . . see what the city has to offer, I suppose?"

"Good thinking." Ravaszhi casts a look around the spaceport. It dwarfs them, the crowd, the starships, but not in an oppressive way. For the first time in a long time, Ravaszhi can relax his senses into their natural state and still feel nothing. No threats, no gathering storms of war, no unpinnable disturbances in the Force. It's just there, chaotic and life-drenched and open for the exploring. "We may not be able to see all of it."

"I've lived in Kaas City most of my life and still haven't gotten around to seeing _everything_ ," Evren says dryly, shouldering his bag and gesturing towards the exit to Iziz. "This will be an adventure."

"May our adventures include a lot of not fighting or worrying about anything," Ravaszhi says, steepling his fingers in front of his forehead in the Jedi gesture of greeting and blessing. It feels off, forced—one part like he's playing a caricature of himself, one like he's pulling the worn edges of his frayed personality back on after too long just . . . raw. Lost.

If Evren's noticed, he doesn't let it show. "Gods," he says, moving for the doors, "yes." His footfalls are practically swallowed by the noise of the crowds, casual and graceful. "I think the hotel is within walking distance, if you don't mind the risk of stumbling around and getting utterly lost."

Ravaszhi reaches for the Force's presence—humming with the focused intent of thousands of travelers around them, directionless en masse—and lets it steady him before falling into step beside Evren. "I think we can manage for a few blocks." He waits a beat. Then: "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"

Evren stops, groans. "Well, now that you mention it . . ."

After a long, silent moment in which nothing dire happens, Ravaszhi sweeps his arm in an elaborate gesture for Evren to lead the way. It almost feels natural, this time.

The universe continues to spare them any sudden catastrophes as they enter the city proper. Iziz is beautiful, all pale stone and wide boulevards and richly-colored awnings, the streets alive with beast riders, and merchants, tourists and citizens. The historical architecture has been artfully maintained, and the technological advances of a spacefaring society blend in almost seamlessly. It's the galaxy's best kept secret, probably due in no small part to its proximity to Dxun.

It's the most beautiful place Ravaszhi has seen in a very long time. "Thank the Force for the Mandalorians, huh?"

"Talk about Mandalore the _Preserver_. . ." Evren turns his head to survey the crowd, says: "And it's always nice to be unremarkable."

Now that Evren mentions it—Ravaszhi hasn't felt any hostile attention since he landed. Either there are enough of his kind who visit Onderon for one more Massassi to be unoticeable, or no one really cares. Either way . . .

"Yes," Ravaszhi agrees. Then, nodding at the building up ahead: "Is this us?"

"Should be."

This early in the afternoon, the lobby is deserted save for the concierge and a sleepy-looking Mirialan drooping over her luggage off to one side. Room key acquired, they make their way upstairs.

Ravaszhi stows his bag in one of the wardrobe compartments, and then wanders over to the transparisteel . . . windows? He pushes on them experimentally, and grins when they slide away, seamless and fluid. "Check out the view."

Evren joins him at the window and whistles low. The clouds are breaking up, and bright watery sunshine splashes the city's stones in patches. Overhead, cargo ships and transport shuttles, and the odd drexl, gleam and fade in turn. In the distance the royal palace towers over the rest of Iziz, graceful yet solid.

"It reminds me of Voss," Evren says. "But less claustrophobic. And less orange."

Voss, with its sprawling, flowering plains and its deep, stone temples. Its strange rituals that bring stranger dreams. Ravaszhi's nails scrape against the handrail, and he forces himself to relax. He's still not sure how much their healing was worth. "I hope they manage to stay out of all this," he manages after a moment.

"Agreed . . ." Evren goes quiet, then sighs, clears his throat. "Think Freedon Nadd's still hanging about, or has Onderon successfully avoided playing host to ancient and eldritch Force entities that feed off destruction?"

Ravaszhi looks up at the sky to where Dxun's silouette hangs huge and green over the city. He'd sensed nothing more sinister than a faint, graveyard-dust sort of ill-will on his descent to Iziz, and that only in deep meditation. He should've sensed something more if Nadd's consciousness remained. "I think Nadd's had his day," Ravaszhi says. "More than once, actually . . . I wonder what there is in the way of historical museums. Arca Jeth should at least get a mention if they commemorate getting rid of Nadd at all."

"I think I remember seeing something about an exhibit at the Royal History Museum," Evren says. "We'll add that to the list of places to go, then . . . if we had a list. Do we want a list? People make lists while on vacation, don't they?"

"The only thing I can tell you decisively about vacations is that people take them. And they're supposed to be . . . fun?" Ravaszhi pretends to pick up an imaginary datapad, and scroll through. "Hm, the galactic basic definition is a little vague. _Enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure_."

"Mm. Sounds highly suspect to me," Evren mutters. He presses his lips together, then says, "Should we head for the museum now, or just explore the city, or . . .?"

Ravaszhi rearranges the back collar of his robe. He hadn't exactly planned for this part. He'd made contingency plans for if something went wrong, but his only real agenda had stopped at _See Evren again; make sure he's alright._ "Was there anything in particular you wanted to do or see? If not we can always just sort of . . . see as we go."

"I was hoping to see the marketplace at some point, but that's by no means urgent," Evren says. "Seeing as we go sounds wonderful, actually."

"We can take a roundabout way through the markets?" Ravaszhi offers.

"Might even be able to pick up some spice," Evren says agreeably. "Not the drug kind, the seasoning kind—you know what I mean." Evren crosses the room, retrieves his jacket from the back of the desk chair, and pulls it on. "Onderonian cuisine has a reputation for very exciting flavors."

Ravaszhi's sister is the one who can talk at length about cuisine. His knowledge of Sith dishes is limited to bloodsoup, and he's never been able to describe what he knows of it dishes beyond _thick_ , and _cloying_ , and trying to recall the actual taste of the blood coating his tongue and throat just makes him feel ill. Which makes Ravaszhi sad, because it . . . it hadn't been that way. "Nothing like bloodsoup, I imagine," he tries to joke. "It probably wouldn't mix well with the Kessel-grade fuel Mandos export."

"Power games in liquid form," Evren says scathingly, stalking past him with a nod of thanks. "They could at least have made an effort to—actually, if you added—" He breaks off, frowns. "No, that would be vile. Never mind."

Ravaszhi tenses at Evren's tone. "I'm sorry," he says carefully, after a moment, not quite sure what he said. "That was in bad taste." And then flinches at himself. That's even worse. "I didn't mean—are you alright?"

Evren turns to him, tilts his head to the side. "I should be the one apologizing. I can be . . . overly dramatic, when it comes to food. And, by the way, that was an _exceptional_ pun."

"It was completely unintentional." And probably better left alone in any case. Ravaszhi skirts around the subject into the closest segue he can think of. "Isn't there supposed to be a blood pool at the academy?"

Evren nods, expression pained. "Complete with a five-meter-long k'lor slug mutant thing that lives in it."

Ravaszhi gives Evren a look. "Didn't anyone ever kill the slug?"

"I thought I did. The last acolyte to try said she did. The acolyte who followed me never came back out." Evren shakes his head. "Make of that what you will. Perhaps the alchemical sciences contingent breed them, or something . . ."

"I think the most nefarious thing Tython had was the—ah—the uh. . ." Ravaszhi stammers to a halt as his faulty memory coalesces. The indigenous tribes. He hasn't thought about them in what has to be years—and he's not even sure he _remembered_ in those years, not until right now.

It almost feels disloyal to even say it, like he'd betraying something somehow. But now Evren is looking at him. Ravaszhi rubs at his forehead, and then rearranges the back of his collar. "The entire native race the Jedi kept denying were sentient, let alone Force sensitive."

". . . Oh. That's . . ." Evren holds the door for him as they enter the streets. "I take it relations were, erm, violent?"

Were they? Ravaszhi racks his brain. There had been . . . something about . . . kidnapped padawans, he thinks, but that could have been something else. Except . . .

"Their attacks are the highest cause of Padawan death on Tython," Ravaszhi says, parroting the inner-core cadence of a Coruscant native that comes to him from . . . somewhere. "I think I met them during my knighthood trials?" It was all such a long time ago . . . and it's behind him, gone, for whatever that means. "The closest parallel I can think of to how the Jedi view them would be the Hutts and the Evocii."

"Oh, delightful," Evren mutters. "What happened, when you contacted them? How did you go about it?"

Ravaszhi's mind echoes back, empty. His _feelings_ , though—"There was . . . a youngling," Ravaszhi starts. And . . . heat, fire, towering idols—warbles and beeps. Teeseven? "My astromech friend helped me . . . return her. To their shamans." It _feels_ true. But that's all, there's nothing else, and Ravaszhi goes quiet again, his skin heating with the old shame of being such a broken, mangled thing. He can't even remember his own knighthood trials.

"Sounds like an effective way of establishing good faith," Evren says. "Hard to argue with the return of a child to their family."

Ravaszhi isn't sure Evren isn't assigning a sunnier epilogue than what had really happened, but he doesn't say so. "I've never talked about it before," he says instead. Not since he'd forgotten, anyway. He avoids bringing that up, too. Evren doesn't need the burden of Ravaszhi's history.

Except Evren's smiling at him, and not condescendingly, warmth like a stray sunflare radiating out of him. Darth Ikoral had never given Ravaszhi that. "Always happy to listen," Evren says.

Ravaszhi smiles his gratitude. The Sith will never deserve Evren.

They're forced to sidle along the outer wall of a building to make way for a lumbering creature towing a cart down the center of the street; as the thing passes, Evren asks, "Why the interest in Arca Jeth, if I may ask?"

"He was my hero," Ravaszhi answers immediately, and then, "—I mean. As a youngling, I admired him. Master Jeth was . . . strong in the Force, but he advocated diplomatic solutions even though his battle meditation could've won almost any conflict the Republic found itself in. And he didn't think it was right to deny hopefuls the opportunity to train with the Order, even if they barely had a spark of latent sensitivity. He even started his own academy on his homeworld. The Praxeum. He fought back against dark side practitioners when they threatened peaceful settlements, but he wasn't afraid to study their teachings, either. He was the Jedi ideal." Ravaszhi pauses. "At least, he was to me."

"History was never my area of focus, and what I did learn was hardly unbiased," Evren says slowly. "But I do remember that Arca Jeth was always spoken of in tones of respect. And from what you've said . . . He sounds like a hero by any reasonable standard."

"It sounds like there isn't much of a dedicated curriculum to history at the academy, aside from application of the Sith Code," Ravaszhi says. He is occasionally regaled with stories of young second and third cousins' exploits on Korriban, and every time he nearly boards a transport to bring them back himself. Life with Sith is very much an exercise in choosing battles wisely, he's learning. "I'm not sure when you would've had the time. But yes, he's always been one of my . . . role models, if you will."

"On Korriban, no, there isn't a great deal of time for study beyond the Code," Evren says with carefree shrug. "So this should be educational. I'm looking forward to it."

They might even run into a few Jedi, but since Onderon is an uncontested world . . . Ravaszhi tries not to worry about it. He inhales the rich blend of market district aromas. Besides, it's a lovely day. "I think we've hit the food sector. Any spices in particular you're looking for?"

"Nothing specific, but I am interested in the local stuff. Supposedly gilorian grounds are quite good with certain meat dishes . . ." Evren looks around the immediate area, grinning. "Right now, let's just look."

Ravaszhi looks at Evren taking everything in, that helpless little knot tightening in his chest again. Evren should move here, or somewhere like here.

Somewhere where aromatic stalls and stores dot the main thoroughfares, where Mandalorians can lounge against the walls feeding entire raw boma flank to the young drexl curled up by their feet. Where shop owners can measure out spices in every shade of red, blue, orange, and purple imaginable, without a care for anything but the business of the day.

Somewhere away from the war.

"I'll follow you," Ravaszhi says to Evren.

The bright afternoon draws people outdoors, and the marketplace grows steadily more crowded as Evren leads him between stands of geometric fruits he's never heard of, a dizzying variety of teas and caffa beans —some so exotic that they that even _look_ poisonous.

A flash of brilliant red, between a gesticulating Weequay's elbow and the edge of a cart—Evren blinks, then laughs. "Ravaszhi, over here," he says over his shoulder, already angling towards the market stall. "My friend Vette introduced me to these—Ryloth ruby plums. They're amazing."

The vendor, a stocky Twi'lek with as much wrinkle as face and sharp grey eyes, watches them approach with a neutral expression. "Can I help you?" she says.

Evren pulls a credit chit from his pocket. "How much for two?"

She names the price and Evren hands over the money before Ravaszhi can get out a protest —and then his friend is turning back to him, fruit in his outstretched hand. "Here."

Ravaszhi takes it and then stands there, tongue-tied and overwhelmed at the simple gesture for what feels like minutes before gaining his voice back. "Thank you." Then he holds the plum up with a shy smile, pantomiming a toast. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Evren echoes, and he takes a bite.

Ravaszhi follows suit, sweetness edged with something sharp and clear bursting on his tongue. It's the best plum Ravaszhi's ever tasted, without a doubt. "I think I could live on these without getting tired of them," he says. "Your friend has excellent taste."

"I'll let her know you approve," Evren says, beaming. "So, ah, any favorites I should keep on hand in case of sudden visits?"

The Red Sith of Korriban, Ravaszhi's ancestors, had derived sustenance directly from the dark side of the Force. It's a _thing_ with his people, not being susceptible to such a mundane weakness as hunger. He doesn't really . . . but he's not sure that that's a conversation he wants to get into with Evren. Besides, the Galactic Basic words _I don't eat_ are usually loaded with bad connotations. "I'm allergic to Corellian white pepper," he says instead. "Other than that . . . not really. But it's kind of you to ask."

"Ooh, a _challenge_ ," Evren says with a smirk. "We'll just have to figure it out, then." He takes another bite of plum, turns on his heel, and sets off in the general direction of the museum once again, a jaunty spring in his step.

A few pubs and cantinas break up the line of food stalls, and Ravaszhi grins. "Now if you ask me about my favorite _liquor_. Do you drink? Because I've heard Mandalorian liquor is _awful_. I have to try it at least once."

Evren snorts. "Your funeral. And, erm. No, I do not drink, but you're welcome to do as you will."

"I won't if it makes you uncomfortable," he says immediately.

"No, really, it's fine," Evren says, half-raising his free hand, palm out. "The only discomfort arises when people know I'm not interested and try to persuade me otherwise. Or vomit on my shoes. That was . . . memorable. So as long as we can avoid _that_ , by all means, feel free."

Ravaszhi chuckles. "Don't worry, I'd like to remember my vacation. And have good things to remember about it, while I'm at it."

"Mandalorian liquor for the Arca Jeth fan. We'll add it to the as-yet-hypothetical list," says Evren. He glances around, then starts angling a bit to the left, where a sign for the Royal Museum points the way. "Almost there."

When he sees it, Ravaszhi breaks into a wide, boyish grin. The Royal Museum is draped in long, orange banners that call to mind the Jedi master's iconic robes and proudly state the current displays on loan from the Arkanian Praxeum and elsewhere. "This is going to be amazing."

They ascend the wide staircase leading up to the tall doors at the front of the museum, then step through into the echoing atrium. The exhibit's drawing quite a crowd, but it doesn't take too long to acquire shiny flimsi maps of the building and shuffle through to the first section of the displays. Evren falls back a pace or two, gestures for Ravaszhi to take the lead. "Where to?" he says. "I wouldn't even know where to begin, there's so _much_. . ."

"Maybe not with the Naddist uprising . . ." Ravaszhi looks up from his map and around, then down and up again. He'd spent countless hours in his young life pouring through accounts of Arca Jeth's work, teachings, and seeing it all detailed in the somber, respectful displays is somewhat baffling. "I would like to see what they have to say about him as a Jedi Watchman; the Watchmen haven't been active in living memory and it's not . . . er."

Ravaszhi looks at Evren, to make sure he's alright with all this. _Jedi_ Watchman, _Jedi_ hero, after all. "If that's alright?"

Evren folds up his map and pockets it, nodding. "Oh, yes, absolutely. I've only heard of the Watchmen in passing . . . What are they? I mean—" He looks down for a moment, then meets Ravaszhi's eyes again, almost . . . sheepish. "Mind if I badger you with questions?"

Ravaszhi laughs, and then ducks his head and covers his smile when people turn and look. "Please do," he says, more quietly, mindful of his volume. "If you don't I might get carried away and babble at you without any sort of coherency. The Jedi Watchmen were particularly skilled knights and masters who were assigned to protect single planets or systems."

He leads Evren to the interactive holo display of the Japrael System, pointing out the marker that indicates Jeth's first landing on Onderon. "Arca Jeth was the Watchman of this system. Onderon wasn't known to the Republic then, and appointing a Jedi Watchman was sort of like . . . sending an ambassador." He grins. "An ambassador with a lightsaber and gift with battle meditation."

"Just in case, of course," Evren says wryly. "So a warrior-diplomat—wait, _battle meditation_? Really? That's . . . beyond impressive. I take it the Jedi—or the Republic—wanted Onderon quite badly, then?"

"It was just as rare back then, believe it or not. And actually, Master Jeth never solicited Onderon for Republic membership. They just wanted . . . to . . . help . . . " Ravaszhi trails off, suddenly aware of how naive that sounds.

Evren eyes the projection. "He did help. More than that, he appears to have ended a civil war and established Onderon's sovereignty, if that first display was any indication. Ulterior motives on the Republic's part or not, the good he did remains, yes?"

Ravaszhi stands there, frowning, turning it over in his head. Even if the Republic—if the Order—did have some kind of ulterior motives in their appointment, that wasn't Master Jeth. Ravaszhi had practically memorized his life's record, once, and whatever else is missing, whatever else he's lost—Ravaszhi doesn't have to question his memory of his childhood hero's works. Evren is right; the good Master Jeth had done remains, self-proving. "You're right," Ravaszhi says, finally. He shakes himself, and points out the next exhibit. "I don't think the Council has appointed any Watchmen in the past century, if not longer. It's a shame."

"How so?" Evren asks.

Ravaszhi looks at him with a quizzical smile. "A Jedi on every world, devoted to nothing but its peace and protection? Think of all the people they could help. And being stationary within a single system would mean these Watchmen know the people and culture they serve on a much deeper level than Jedi who travel from mission to mission across the galaxy. No matter how wise or powerful the Jedi, there's no substitute for having personal trust with the people we serve."

"Ah," Evren says, tilting his head to one side. "That makes sense. And it would do wonders for the Order's fuel bills, cut down on all the shuffling of Knights from the Core to the Rim every five minutes . . . I'm really not seeing a downside. What changed?"

Evren's discomfort is glaring in the fact he's made it into a joke about the tab.

"I'm not sure," Ravaszhi says carefully. "Numbers, maybe, or—" _the Sith_ "—the war. In Master Jeth's day most of the conflicts before Exar Kun rose to power were isolated, not galactic. With something on this scale . . ." Ravaszhi shrugs. "Priorities are different." And then, a peace offering: "Although the Sith seem to have a similar idea with the Moffs and Overseers."

"Maybe. The intent seems to be somewhat less altruistic in the Empire's case, though. Speaking as a filthy reformist and occasional traitor, a galaxy where Jedi focus on diplomacy and humanitarian work sounds like a good one."

Ah. Yes. The Jedi's part in the war, in escalating the war, in hunting the Sith down instead of focusing on protecting those who needed it . . .

Indisputable, and Ravaszhi is as guilty as any of them.

There's a statue of Arca Jeth in the next room. Ravaszhi gravitates to a stop in front of it, recalling the towering bronzium rendition in the Jedi Temple's ruin. This version is white marble, as smooth and polished as Rhinnal glass. The Arkanian master stands tall in his flowing robes, four-fingered hands spread in diplomacy or welcome.

Ravaszhi looks down at his own hands, inadvertently mirroring the statue's posture. "Before," he starts, unable to make himself use the words _when I was still a Jedi_ , "the Order, the Light, being—" Ravaszhi swallows—"doing things of worth . . . they were all one and the same to me." And he had been nothing without them. Not a Jedi. Not a person. "But they're not. Being worthy, having good in you, isn't exclusive to the Jedi."

He looks at Evren, and sends him a flare of warmth and gratitude. "You showed me that."

Evren swallows. The Force grows tight and still around them, and then Evren rubs at his eyes.

Ravaszhi takes an abortive step forward. His friend is—he's made Evren cry, _what has Ravaszhi done_ —

"I think Arca Jeth would be proud of you," Evren rasps. "For—for caring. About people. Helping them. Jedi or not, you're . . . There's good enough in you to outshine galaxies."

Ravaszhi flinches. If Evren only knew . . . but he's not hurt, these are glad tears, and when Ravaszhi opens to answer he finds himself blinking, swallowing. His chest is tight. He presses the heel of his hand to the tight knot there, trying to knead out the tangled emotion. That Evren thinks so much of him . . .

His palm encounters the blue crystal he's wearing under his robes. Evren had given it to him, once, what felt like a life ago. When he'd been a Jedi.

Ravaszhi laughs, or tries to, and ends up hiccupping. His emotions are bleeding out into the Force, _love_ , and gratitude, and the helpless sense of devotion he has always felt for Evren, and he can't control them but he doesn't think he needs to, either. Not with Evren. Never with Evren. "Thank you, Evren. That means so much to me."

Evren chokes out a laugh of his own. "Thank _you_. I'm—I'm glad I could help."

Evren's own emotions flare back, and Ravaszhi is filled with a warm rush of _thank you I love you I'm so lucky to know you,_ so close and powerful that Ravaszhi can almost _hear_ his friend's internal voice in his mind. And then Evren's strong arms are around him, pulling Ravaszhi against him. Ravaszhi melts into him, dropping his chin to Evren's shoulder and holding him as tight as his claws will allow without hurting. He's still crying, and he's still hiccupping, but it doesn't matter. "I love you, too, Evren," Ravaszhi says aloud. "I'm so proud to be your friend."

 **o.O.o**


	2. Chapter 2

**o.O.o**

An ocean breeze gusts at their exposed faces as they pick their way down the beach. Coarse shore grasses tremble and wave on the dunes, and the sand is speckled with shells. A few seabirds squawk overhead, unworried. Other than that, and the constant low shushing of the Onderonian sea, it's quiet.

Evren has the sudden urge to burrow into the sand and just . . . fail to leave. He grins. "And at last the beach vacation's appeal becomes apparent."

"It's beautiful here," Ravaszhi agrees. He looks down at his feet and wiggles all eight individually encased toes in his purple shoes. Then he looks back up at Evren, smiling. "Have you never been to one before?"

"Nothing like this, and never for its own sake." Dromund Kaas's seashores tend more towards the cold, rocky, and dramatic. And soggy. This is . . . nice. Evren wanders towards the breakers, fascinated. "Have you?"

"I grew up in the temple on Alaris Prime," says Ravaszhi. A gesture of trust—a _frightening_ one, given the war and the lengths the Jedi have gone to keep their enclaves' locations secret. But Ravaszhi continues, "There were rivers and oceans practically everywhere—we all learned to swim as part of our physical training, but when we were old enough to leave the temple on our own, we spent most of our free time at the water."

"It sounds wonderful," Evren says, a little wistfully. He can imagine it. A younger ( _happier_ ) Ravaszhi on a planet like this, drenched in life . . . He shakes it off, nudges at a half-buried stone in the sand at his feet. The bare metal of his prosthetic clinks softly against it. He should probably have worn some kind of protective covering to keep out the sand— _oh well._ "So you can actually swim, then?" he says.

Ravaszhi makes a mock-hurt face. "My training might've missed a few things, but I didn't just recite the Jedi Code for the first seventeen years of my life."

Evren gives an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I—that's not—all I meant was that I can't. Or, well, I _can_ , a bit, but not without resorting to Force trickery to stay afloat or achieve any appreciable speed. So that was—admiration, not astonishment. Sorry."

Ravaszhi blinks at him, the Force quirking with _befuddlement_. "Oh. Thank you. You've taught me so much and I thought . . . I could show you, if you like."

Evren ducks his head. "I—Yes, I'd like that. Maybe not immediately, but—it is a rather glaring disadvantage." No, he _wants_ to learn and—and it could be fun. Rationalizing that in terms of advantage and skill sets and everything he's supposed to prioritize is for once unnecessary, so he should just— _stop._ He hesitates, then tries, "Should I invest in some of those little inflatable arm-floaty things, in case?"

It works. Ravaszhi seems to consider the resultant mental image, and then nods, a flare of anticipatory glee brightening the Force. "Yes," he says decisively. "I think that would be a good idea."

"Welcome to Onderon," Evren says, mournful. "Here dwelt the ghost of Freedon Nadd, and here lies the remains of my dignity."

Ravaszhi bursts out laughing. "You've seen me with fluffy purple point protectors on my face. My shoes look like ridiculous foot gloves." He clenches his hand into a dramatic fist and says, in an impressive imitation of Darth Marr, "Join me, Lord Straik, and embrace the power of the tourist aesthetic."

Evren loves him so much. "The galaxy will be ours to gawk at. Let us reach!" He spreads his hands to encompass the ocean, the beach, and the rock he'd been poking at. It sprouts segmented legs and scuttles away as if offended. Evren blinks. "Someone is not getting into the spirit of things _at all_."

Ravaszhi picks up the crab. "Not everyone can wear their house to the beach, my spry little friend," he tells it sternly. Then he places it back on the sand so it can continue on its way.

"No respect for our most illustrious Dark Lord of spiky armor, either," Evren says, shaking his head. "Ah, well." He's inclined to agree with the crab's assessment, anyway.

He watches it skitter a few meters up the beach, then settle down again, pique apparently forgotten. Beyond it, the breakers dissolve into hissing foam and then retreat. Evren edges nearer to the water, plants his foot in the damp sand, and scrunches his toes a bit. He can't quite follow suit with his left foot—the only sensory feedback it receives is pressure—but it's still oddly entertaining.

Ravaszhi sits down at the tideline's edge, watching him with a grin. He cards his fingers through the drier, softer sand. "I love this planet," he says.

"Agreed," says Evren. Then he stifles a squeak as an unusually enterprising wavelet splashes over his ankles—Ravaszhi snickers at him. Evren retreats, pants quickly becoming encrusted with sand. He picks his way over to his friend and sits down next to him, within arm's reach but not touching, and draws his knees to his chest. "So. What now?"

Ravaszhi pushes down on the wet sand with a heel, experimentally. He grins at Evren. "Have you ever made a sandcastle before?"

". . . Not really, no." He looks at Ravaszhi sidelong. "I take it you have an idea."

"Well, actually . . ." Ravaszhi reaches for the Force, uses it to manipulate the lay of the sand under the surface until thumb high ridges rise between them. "I think I can make the temple I grew up in." He points at one of the square areas he's defined, beaming. "These were the youngling dormitories. My room."

Evren laughs, delighted. He's never quite gotten the hang of such delicate work with the Force—Ravaszhi makes it look easy. "Alaris Prime, yes? How long were you there for?"

"Seventeen years, before I went to Tython for my trials." Ravaszhi pauses in the middle of raising the walls, frowning, the Force dimming slightly. "At least, I was seventeen by my calendar when I left, but . . . I might actually be older."

Because the Jedi lied to him about his family's fate. Why wouldn't they also lie about his age? Evren can't be _glad_ that Ravaszhi is free of the Order, not when the price was so high, and the alternative so . . . brutal, but . . . He breathes. "Oh, no," he says lightly, "extra birthday celebrations to make up for lost time. Maybe a few extra-extras. Just in case. You never know when you might need a spare."

Ravaszhi seems to accept the levity at face value. Thank the stars. "How old were you when you had your trials?" he asks.

"Older than average, if you mean Korriban." Meliah didn't want to let him leave. And when she finally did . . . Evren pulls a face. "Though what that mess was meant to prove is . . . questionable, and my overseer was trying to game the system using me, so it's—not really indicative of the usual order of business."

"I didn't realize the overseers stood to gain anything from the acolytes' successes," says Ravaszhi.

"They don't, but . . . politics. Keeping an 'impure' acolyte away from a prestigious apprenticeship was apparently reason enough to favor me."

Ravaszhi's mouth quirks up. "Privilege has its privileges, or so I've heard."

"Quite." Evren tries not to tally up his kill count for the time he spent on Korriban, and does not look at his own hands.

"The Jedi usually have five trials," Ravaszhi says, "but sometimes they're condensed. Is it like that? If you don't mind sharing."

Facts. He can do facts. Evren shrugs. "It's fairly open-ended. Mostly we run errands for the overseers until a Dark Lord takes an interest and gives us specific tasks to complete. There's usually competition for a given apprenticeship, but otherwise it's just . . . high-risk archaeology and occasional sanctioned murder." And a _lot_ of technically unsanctioned but socially acceptable murder on top of that.

". . . Huh," Ravaszhi says noncommittally. It's a better reaction than Evren feared. Then Ravaszhi's lips twitch again. "And the odd blood pool, complete with giant k'lor slug."

"Pffft. Yes." Evren tilts his head to the side, seizes the chance to change the subject like the coward he is. "What about your trials? You said one of them was opening contact with that village on Tython . . ."

Ravaszhi continues shaping his sand temple, adding detail to the intricate masonwork of the walls. "That was my only trial. I don't remember all of it anymore, but it lasted almost half a year. I was sent to Coruscant to help with the civil unrest afterwards."

And then he was captured by the Empire.

Evren rubs a handful of sand between his fingers on his far side from Ravaszhi. Unsure of what to say, he backtracks, and not very gracefully. "So, ah—those were the dormitories. What about classrooms? If you had those. Training rooms?"

"Our main dojo was open-air," Ravaszhi says, leaving the half-sculpted landing pad alone to finish the structure in question. It's on the ground just outside the rest of the temple—no spatial limitations to inhibit movement. "But there were two small ones inside where most of the younger students trained. We weren't allowed to train in the thunderstorms until we'd mastered regulating our body temperatures." He points to a section of the first story. "There—the ceilings are higher on the first floor. The library was here—" he points again "—and the meditation rooms were at the top."

Evren peers at the model temple. "I remember having far more fun than I should have in the larger training rooms. More space for jumping around—I can't even imagine the chaos with gaggles of younglings at once."

"Jedi younglings tend to be fairly serene as a group, what with trying to embody the Code, but sometimes they get too excited about their studies and chaos ensues." Ravaszhi laughs, and puts a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Or maybe that was just me. But usually if one group was in the library another would be in the training room, and another would be in the meditation chambers, and another would be having their studies outside. There weren't often more than twenty students in a given area."

"What were you so excited about, then?" Evren asks with a grin. "And more generally—any favorite places? Things to do?" People, he's not certain if he should ask about, but if the subject comes up, so be it.

"The galactic cultural block still stands out," Ravaszhi says with a self deprecating smile. "Massassi got about a paragraph when we studied different species' customs, but when I found out jewelry was a cultural thing I tried to pierce my face. I wanted these." Ravaszhi traces a fingernail down from his eye at a diagonal, laughs again. "I might've poked my eye out if one of the Masters hadn't stopped me. They got me rings instead." He pinches the very edge of his right eyebrow stalk illustratively. "There weren't actually very many places to go outside of the temple. Alaris wasn't exactly settled, but there was water everywhere, so I swam. I spent a lot of time in the dojo, too. What about you?"

Evren digs his right foot deep into the sand. "I wasn't allowed off the estate except on training exercises, so . . . mostly I'd hide in the training rooms, practice saber katas, that kind of thing. If Meliah left the library unsecured I could sometimes get in and read, but it was usually safer to stay occupied." He forces a sunny smile. "Used to sneak down to the kitchens in the middle of the night, though. That was fun."

Ravaszhi looks confused for a moment—he cocks his head, starts to ask—and then his gaze flickers downward a few inches, to Evren's tattoos. ". . . Which form was your favorite?" he says instead.

 _Breathe._ "Ataru," says Evren. "Learning that . . . It came more naturally than any other saber form, and it always felt like—like flying. I love it."

Ravaszhi breaks into a smile. "I can see that. I've never been very acrobatic myself."

"Perhaps, but you're steady. Grounded. And you're far better at defense than I've ever been." And since it's _true_ : "It suits you. You're a protector."

Ravaszhi's smile falls. He looks back at the water. "Thank you. Soresu was my second form, after Makashi."

"It shows." Evren watches a wave approach, crash against the shore, and retreat in a flurry of bubbling foam, not quite reaching them. He laughs under his breath, then, and rests his forehead on his mismatched knees. "It's always lightsaber forms with me, sorry . . ."

"What? I enjoy lightsaber forms," says Ravaszhi. "Juyo was quite an . . . experience . . ." He eyes Evren, frowns slightly. "Are you all right?"

Weapons. Violence. Killing. This is supposed to be a _vacation_ and for all that Ataru is flight and freedom it's still . . . "Don't want to bore you," Evren says, and that's true enough. Except Ravaszhi brought it up, which could imply that Evren thinks it's boring, which he does not, it's one of the few topics he can easily expound upon at length but it's still about _killing_ —

"Sorry," he adds, and forces himself to look up. Not at Ravaszhi, though; he's not brave enough for that.

And then there's a flare of warmth and affection and silent apology from Ravaszhi, and it _hurts_. "I'm happy just to have your company, Evren. You can't bore me. And I do like talking lightsaber forms," he says, "I just . . . _protector_ isn't a label I'm comfortable with."

"Ah. Right. My apologies." And that's—he can guess why. As for the rest . . . He's overthinking. Again. Always. _Stop it._ Evren inhales, steadies himself, and says, "But in any case, your form is excellent, from what I've seen." And now he's talking like his old instructors—Evren laughs again, shaking his head. _Admiration-affection-wonder_ , he can give that, he can shove the rest aside to pay a genuine bloody compliment. "So, ah, Makashi and Soresu, then?"

Ravaszhi beams. "Thank you. I've felt sloppier ever since I gave up Shien for Juyo but . . . thank you. I started with those two, and I had a bit of Shii-cho at one point, but I had to learn Juyo to go undercover. I think I'm getting better at it, but I'm not planning to be the next family blademaster or anything like that. What I end up doing is kind of a—an adaptation of what I still remember."

"Juyo's tricky," Evren says, nodding, trying not to dissolve into worry or dwell on the context. "Useful, but I've found it's more applicable as a general approach than a specific form, if that makes sense? So—incorporating it into other techniques. A Juyo garnish, if you will."

"A Juyo garnish," Ravaszhi repeats, grinning. "I like that. I had to learn Alchaka before I could attempt Juyo. I was too tired to hurt myself in training, but I think it may have impacted how much of it stuck, too. You must have learned other combat techniques, too, right?"

"Yes—mostly Jar'kai, for the dual-wielding. Bit of Makashi as well. I've tried Soresu and Djem So, but I'm miserably bad at them," Evren says. Then, curious: "What's Alchaka?"

"I haven't attempted dual wielding since before we chose our training paths as junior Initiates," Ravaszhi says. "I was terrible at it. But Alchaka . . . it's like moving meditation, sort of. Essentially a series of complex Force and motion katas designed to bring the practitioner closer to the Force. Most Jedi don't learn it. But, if you're interested . . . maybe we could spar sometime."

"Really? I—yes! I'd love to," Evren says. He should probably be less hideously eager—no, actually, on second thought there's no reason not to be. "It sounds fascinating—we don't have anything quite like it that I know of."

Ravaszhi brightens for a moment, then grimaces. "I, uh, may have misspoke. There is no sparring in Alchaka. Or if there is, no one ever mentions it outside of whatever locked room they practice in. It's considered deeply personal; my trainer and I had our eyes closed half the time we worked together. I'd be happy to teach it to you, but I'm not even sure how that would . . ." He trails off. "It may not be adaptable for sparring. We could try . . .?"

"Oh—no, I misinterpreted you, I shouldn't have assumed—apologies." _Jedi_ technique, moving _meditation_? Of course it's not intended for direct combat. Not everything is about fighting. Evren clears his throat. "And regular sparring would be fine. More than fine. Thank you."

Ravaszhi's smile is more than a little relieved. Still a smile, though. "I'm already looking forward to it. But . . . really, if you're interested in Alchaka as it is, I'd be happy to share it with you."

Evren should ask if it's truly all right, sharing something both personal and—well, it's a Jedi technique he's never heard of; who knows what their policy towards teaching outsiders— _enemies_ —might be? If it even matters, at this point, with the two of them being what they are. He should ask. He doesn't. Selfish, perhaps, but—

 _Stop._ Evren looks down at the sand temple and says, "I'd like that."

Ravaszhi gestures vaguely. "Think . . . Force-enhanced non-combat katas, only less focus, more peace."

". . . Right, we _really_ don't have anything like it," Evren says wryly. He manages to meet Ravaszhi's eyes. "But I'll try."

Ravaszhi's smile widens. "Think you want to try swimming too?"

"Absolutely. But I demand inflatable arm floaties. We're doing this _properly_."

Ravaszhi laughs, letting his head fall back. "Let it never be said we didn't take a proper vacation," he says, when he sobers. "There has to be somewhere nearby where we can find them . . ."

 **o.O.o**

Though the stretch of beach they're on is somewhat sheltered by rocky outcroppings to either side, it's only a short distance to a boardwalk down the shore. There, it's a simple matter to acquire sufficiently ridiculous arm floats—Evren opts for bright, cheerful blue, patterned with pink spots—though the vendor throws him and Ravaszhi an odd look as they bid them farewell.

Evren ducks into a small shop advertising swimwear next, and glances at Ravaszhi. "Need anything here?" He's already selected trunks and a long-sleeved surf shirt, stretchy and—apparently—both fast-drying and proof against UV radiation. Handy. It is also very green.

Ravaszhi peruses the rebreathers for a bit, then takes one of the smaller, mouth-only models and holds it up. "Just this, I think."

Evren nods, pays for the items, and ducks into a 'fresher to change. He emerges with his clothes rolled up in the flimsiplast bag from the shop, feeling a bit silly in the colorful swimwear, but— _vacation_. Silliness is good. And nothing came in plain black or grey anyway. "Shall we?"

Ravaszhi stares at him, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "You look good in color."

"Between the two of us we're a magnificent rainbow," Evren says cheerily. "This is rather novel . . ."

"Maybe you should make it a regular thing," Ravaszhi says as they leave the store. "You wouldn't even look out of place next to Darth Marr. If only your floats had spikes."

Evren considers, snickers, and nods vigorously. "Could start an entirely new trend in Sith fashion. Juxtaposition for emphasis, yes? I can see him looking absolutely stunning in a nice periwinkle."

"Or a tasteful mauve." Ravaszhi keeps a straight face for a whole beat before bursting out laughing. "Can you imagine? I'm not sure whether it would make him more or less frightening."

"On its own, less, I think. But that would probably lead to his plumbing new depths of terrifying in other ways, to compensate for the sudden loss of dignity." Evren pulls a face, uncapping one of his arm floats' ports. "It'd still be hilarious, though." He takes a breath and starts blowing it up as they walk.

"Is there any swimming form in particular you want to learn?" Ravaszhi asks when they reach the sand again. "Floating? Swimming underwater? A specific stroke?"

"How about the first, to begin with?" Evren finishes inflating the floats, sticks his arms through them, and plants his hands on his hips. He narrows his eyes at the placid ocean. "Permission to resort to Force tricks should something go awry?"

"Feel free, but I won't let it come to that. I'll show you the backfloat first. Come on." Ravaszhi wades backwards into the water, motioning for Evren to follow him.

Evren stumbles a bit as the incoming waves shift his balance; recovering, he takes a moment to get used to the rolling motion and adjust for it. The waves seem to eat away at the sand under his feet even as they kick up grit—it's an odd sensation, though not unpleasant. Could prove treacherous, though. "How far out should we go, then?"

"We'll start out at waist deep and go from there." Ravaszhi stops when the water levels out at his navel between waves. The highest of them barely crests his sternum, and they're mild enough, as such things go. "The idea is to lie on your back with your arms out at an angle for balance. When you're ready, kick out towards the surface and straighten your back."

Evren twitches as something—the Force—weaves behind his shoulders, unexpected pressure and support. He shouldn't need it, but it's . . . the gesture is appreciated. He nods, obeys. The water—and the Force—provide enough resistance to keep him from keeling over backwards entirely. An odd feeling. His legs hang heavier, especially the left—no surprise there—but he doesn't quite sink yet. "Should I be doing anything with my arms, or just letting them drift?"

"Just let them drift outwards. Think of your arms and legs as making the points of a star, if that helps."

"All right . . ." He's not sure if it's the waves or his breath that keeps him bobbing up and down, but bob he does. Squinting against the brightness of the sky, Evren grins up at Ravaszhi's silhouette. "Look, I haven't drowned yet!"

Ravaszhi beams at him. "You're a natural. Are you comfortable enough for me to let go? If not there's no hurry."

Habit demands instant agreement. But failure to learn fast enough isn't a punishable offense now. Evren breathes, and considers, and only then says, "Go ahead."

Apparently satisfied when Evren does not go under, Ravaszhi floats onto his back next to him, looking quite at home. "There's a basic stroke I can show you from here, unless you'd rather go straight to underwater."

"Why not—let's try it." As nice as this is, as much as Evren appreciates being able to simply float along, he'd like to be able to move on his own, too.

"There's two ways to do it," Ravaszhi says. "You can sweep your arms backwards behind your head and flutter your legs, or you can move your arms to your sides and legs together" Ravaszhi demonstrates both twice, before letting himself sink to his feet again. "Either way gives you momentum, it's just a matter of preference."

The next several minutes are characterized by a great deal of flailing, swearing, and splashing as Evren attempts to mimic the motions. All his hard-won coordination seems to desert him as soon as he has to contend with the simultaneous drag and support of the water, not to mention the waves. And his leg's abysmal buoyancy certainly isn't helping.

Evren keeps trying. Laughing, for all that part of him wants to crawl into a hole and never come out again—he should be able to do this, he should be more than capable of something so simple—but this is Onderon, and Ravaszhi, and it's _fun_. He doesn't need to laugh in self-defense. He can just . . . laugh, because it's absurd, and he's enjoying himself despite everything.

He lurches a few meters forward—well, backward—splutters as a surprise wave splashes over his face, and spits out water as he stands fully again and tries to sweep his sodden hair out of his eyes. "I think I need a bit more practice," he says dryly. "Sorry."

"I didn't learn to swim in a day, either," Ravaszhi says with a quizzical smile. "There's nothing to be sorry for. We can do something else if you'd prefer."

"Oh, I don't know, I'm rather enjoying myself. Unless you want to swim around properly, in which case please, feel free. I can keep at this." Evren swipes at his eyes again, wincing a little at the salt sting. "Managed to go a bit further last time before I capsized, right? I'll get the hang of it."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you if you don't feel safe this deep in the water."

"I have spotted arm floaties," Evren says loftily. "I am _invincible_."

Ravaszhi makes a valiant effort to laugh, but his gaze drops to the scar across Evren's chest, from the Foundry. Evren holds very still, projects nothing but confidence and amusement. Ravaszhi shouldn't have to worry about him, now of all times.

". . . I won't be far off," Ravaszhi says. He smiles, forced, and adds, "I'll be back before you even notice," before diving under the water and swimming in a short circle around Evren. Then he moves out towards deeper water.

Evren keeps trying to swim with anything resembling his dry land coordination, and . . . possibly begins to approach it. Maybe. He's moving, at any rate, and though he keeps checking to make sure that he hasn't drifted too far down the beach, or too far out into the water, he's able to stay afloat.

All the while, Ravaszhi is there, a connecting thread whispering at the back of Evren's mind. And that's—he's struck by the—the trust he's been offered. The concern, and kindness.

It's staggering, humbling.

. . . And there is definitely something tangled around his prosthetic leg that should not be there. Evren stops kicking, lets the arm floats take his weight, and attempts to identify the thing by dint of scrunching his leg to his chest and groping at the offending object.

 _Ravaszhi_ , Evren says grimly. _Ravaszhi, I'm being attacked by kelp._

Within seconds, Ravaszhi returns, untangles the kelp, and resurfaces, holding the defeated flora aloft. "Through victory!" he crows.

Evren cackles. He had only intended to amuse, not to interrupt Ravaszhi's swim, but, well . . . "My chains are broken!" he echoes, grandiose. And while he's at it . . . Evren squiggles out of the arm floats and sends them drifting back to shore with a brisk application of Force. "Thank you, brave rescuer," he says. "Might I trouble you for a demonstration of what you've been doing? I suspect that facing forward might be helpful . . ."

Ravaszhi bows, still laughing. "Helping others is both a duty and an honor. I'd be happy to. How long can you hold your breath?"

"Upwards of two minutes without the Force, longer with."

"Plenty of time. Just open your eyes once you're under and I'll show you."

Evren nods, draws in a breath, and lets himself slip under the waves. It's more difficult than expected to drag his eyes open again, but soon enough the sharp sting of saltwater fades to a faint burn—not unlike channeling the dark side. Just . . . softer. Bluer.

Everything is blue. Sunlight spears down to the sandy ocean floor in lines of diffuse brilliance. More kelp drifts past, serene. Evren twists until he finds Ravaszhi again, and part of him aches at how at _home_ Ravaszhi seems in the water.

He flashes a thumbs-up and waits for instruction.

Ravaszhi waves back and then turns sideways so that Evren can see him move back and forth. He reaches forward and joins his hands flat in front of him, making a line with his body. He swims back and forth for a few metres, demonstrating how to undulate through the chest and the hips to gain kicking power. He gestures again, then shows a second stroke, froglike and faster, before pointing upwards.

They both resurface. Evren sucks in a few lungfuls of air as he wipes his eyes clear. "Looks simple enough," he says. "And, er, it'll be nice to be able to see where I'm going."

"I wouldn't even suggest it otherwise. Training without sight is one thing, but this isn't a controlled environment." And Ravaszhi's happiness dims for a moment, clouds passing over the sun at some memory.

 _Ikoral._

"All right, then," Evren says, light and outwardly unworried. "Let's see how this goes . . ." He tries kicking off and diving, and though it's not the most graceful leap of his career it's enough to give him some starting momentum. The water's drag slows him soon enough, but the first few strokes are easier—he doesn't become unbalanced and start rolling before he can get his limbs sorted out, at least. And then it's . . .

Well. Saltwater burn or not, limited air or not, it feels far more natural than skimming the surface did. He's still relatively high in the water; exhaling, he sinks a bit, close enough to the ocean floor to pick out the texture of the sand. He can see the line where larger stones and gravel give way to the finer grains of the seashore, the waves' energy not quite sufficient to carry them further inland. It's still enough to propel him along, pushing him forward in long rolling sweeps.

He's still moving under his own power, though, and the knowledge that he's swimming, properly swimming, provokes a grin that tastes of salt. _Thanks_ , he sends along the connection to Ravaszhi. _Thank you so much for this._

Ravaszhi treads water a few feet away, watching him, glowing with pride and happiness and _warmth_ like the shafts of sunlight all around them. _It was my pleasure._

 **o.O.o**


End file.
